“No, I
do not think it’s hokey.” I ignored Henry’s and my father’s snickers coming
from across the table. “The Flag Day committee chose the design for the mural
because it embodied community and citizenship.”

Elliott
shifted his eyes to his grandpa. “Sounds like a cheese fest, huh?”

“Well,
Elliott’s on his third helping, and that says a lot. He’s been talking about
Holly’s mashed potatoes since November.”

My dad
nudged El. “Maybe we’ll get some meat on those bones.”

Elliott
blushed. “You’re one to talk.”

The two
of them swatted at each other’s arms a few times, and Henry covered my hand with
his on the tabletop.

“So
when will you start painting?” Henry asked, squeezing my fingers. “We’re
already halfway into May, and Flag Day is June fourteenth. You’re running out
of time.”

“I’ll
go into Spokane tomorrow to pick up the supplies and paints. Then, I’ll be at
the post office every day, working on the mural as soon as the sun hits the
wall and dries the dew.”

Elliott
squared his shoulders. “Everyone at school is talking about it. Miss Price
wants me to take pictures on my cell phone to sneak a peek for her.”

“Miss
Price needs to wait like the rest of us.” My dad pushed away his plate of
barely-eaten food. “Auto’s gonna make this town proud.”

“I hope
so. It’s not going to be easy, and I’ll be at the post office until dark every
night until it’s done.” I looked at my dad’s yellowed hands, and took a deep
breath. “You’ve been getting pretty disoriented in the evenings. I’m worried
about not being here.”

“I’ll
be here.” Elliott said. “I can help him.”

Henry
adjusted in his chair. “And I will, too.”

My dad
looked at him in surprise. “You don’t gotta do that. I’m just tired these
days.”

The
look on his face said otherwise. My father was well aware of his deteriorating
health. We’d
talked about the measures he wanted me to take to sustain his life if he took a
turn for the worse—none. The only thing he’d expressed emphatically was that he
didn’t want to die alone in a hospital room.

I
thought I could grant him that one wish.

“Of
course not.” Henry spoke quickly. “But I don’t have cable at my house, so I
miss all the good games. If I come here after work, I can teach Elliott how to
make mashed potatoes and watch the games with you.”

My dad
knew what he meant. He stared at Henry for a beat, frowning, then snapped,
“Mooch.”

Henry
grinned. “You got me.”

“What
makes you think I want to learn how to make mashed potatoes?” Elliott licked
his fork.

I
raised an eyebrow at my son. “You just had four helpings, El. You’d better
learn to make them for yourself, if you want to keep up that potato habit.”

“I was
thinking that we could work on your cello during the afternoons, too,” Henry
said, stabbing a bite of salad with his fork. “I don’t get to spend much
one-on-one time with you at strings once a week. I’m thinking the Spokane
Junior Symphony might be in your future. Tryouts are in September. If we start
working now, we can get a selection down pat. You have to play from memory at
the auditions. I think you can do it, Elliott. I really do.”

El’s
cheeks became pink. “I don’t practice here as much as I did in Seattle. I would
have to practice a lot. And I would have to come up with a cool piece to play.
I mean, a really cool piece.”

My dad
banged his fist on the table. “Willie Nelson.”

We all
laughed.

I began clearing the table. “Sounds
like a plan. Elliott, go finish your math homework, and hit the shower. I can
smell your sneakers from here. Dad, go sit down,” I called over my shoulder.
“I’ll bring you your medications.”